Heart Condition
by nefret24
Summary: Josh N' Donna. Josh's POV after 17 People. Spoiler alert! Rated for language. Please R&R!:


Heart Condition

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of the West Wing. Aaron Sorkin, the master of banter and all around demi-god, and all his friends do. I thought maybe they would like to come out and play with me for a while but don't worry, I'll return em before he needs to write the next episode.

Spoilers: Mostly 17 People, and a lil' bit o' The War at Home, In Excelcis Deo, Noel, Ellie, Somebody's Going to Emergency, Somebody's Going to Jail, The Stackhouse Filibuster, 20 Hours in LA and The Portland Trip (can u find them all?)

Author's Note: Josh and Donna fluff. Josh's POV, right after events in 17 People. All you need to know. 

Feedback: Pretty please with a cherry on top. I'm a first time fan fic-er — have pity on me! 

Archiving: I'm flattered! Really. But ask first.

I consider myself to be a healthy guy for someone who doesn't work out, eats crap every day and has one of the most stressful jobs in the world. I look good. Sam might be Mr. Pretty Boy around the office but hey, **I** have a **fan club**. So what if I still eat in the same way as I did in college? I still act like I'm in college and I'm one of the top aides to the leader of the free world. So bite me. 

Okay, well there was that whole shooting thing. I definitely think that bullets are unhealthy. Still standing though. Can't get Josh Lyman down. I am the dude. Even if Mike Piazza never got the chance to call me "dude," doesn't matter. Cuz he _knows _I'm the dude. 

After the shooting, I started to get these weird ass pains in my chest. Okay, so there was the Post Traumatic Stress Theory and my little episode with the window. Glass is also up there on my unhealthy list. Especially if it's lodged in your hand. But lately, I'm beginning to think that my therapist was full of shit. 

I still have them. The weird ass pains, I mean. And it's not when I hear music, or smell rubbing alcohol, or drive past the hospital, like Stanley the Quack thinks. 

I think it's related to something else entirely. And that scares me more than ever. 

The first time it happened was the night I was hailed "Deputy Downer" by my assistant, Donna. She looked flat out gorgeous in this screaming red dress and I made some flippant- yet albeit uncaring and callous- remark about her lack of dating success. Yes, not only am I a Fulbright scholar, I also masquerade as a complete and total moron. Scum of the earth was I. I don't deserve her. I know that. But if she wasn't around, would I still be? I tried to fix everything, I really did. Wasn't very successful but give the man a few points for trying. She smiled at me before she left. Then I thought I was having a heart attack. 

All I know is, the pain finally stopped after a couple more beers. After downing as many as I did that night, I could have probably been numb to about any possible kind of physical pain for days straight. The funky feeling in my chest was gone in the morning and Donna seemed normal the next day. Banter resumed and all was well in the Lyman domain.

That is, until, Joey Lucas turned up again. I will be the first to admit she is a "fine looking woman." The deaf thing doesn't weird me out either- though I think it would be pretty uncomfortable to go out with her **and** Kenny. Kenny bothers me but since I'm too lazy to learn sign language, he has his uses. But still, it's freaky when he says things like "You have the cutest ass in politics, Joshua Lyman." Even though he's speaking for her, I just can't accept the compliment without some hesitation. Though, hey, I do have a nice butt, if I do say so myself. 

What began to bother me was Donna's insistence that I ask Joey out. First it was the incessant "Gather ye rosebuds, Joshua" speech. Gathering rosebuds in LA turned out to be a first rate disaster since Joey was sleeping with Kiefer at the time. More like, smell the rosebuds but do not touch or the Devil's cigarette boy will come after you. 

But I digress. The point is Donna continues to try and play Yente and hook me and Joey up. This perplexes me. Why should she do this? I certainly don't push her into relationships. Rather the complete opposite. 

I discussed this with Sam. For someone who went to Princeton, you would think he would be able to help me figure this out. Unfortunately, Sam's smarts are in meaningless factoids that no one else ever wanted to know and his luck with women. Well, can we all say "call girl?" 

_"All last night at the phone banks, Donna was telling me I should ask Joey Lucas out. . . . What do you make of Donna being the one pushing it?" _

"I don't make anything." 

"You wouldn't think she'd be jealous?" 

"She goes out with guys are you jealous? 

"No. . . . I don't get jealous. . . I don't like it and usually do everything in my considerable capabilities to sabotage it. . . . Which is why it's curious that Donna would do nothing to discourage and in fact do everything to encourage a date with Joey Lucas who is quite frankly a very attractive woman." 

This is a truly weird thing going on. Why wouldn't she sabotage me? Maybe she is. Maybe that's the point. I go out with Joey, get my little heart stepped on, and she can laugh about me dating Californian gomers. Ya think? Nah, me neither. Donna can be devious and malicious, but she's not that bad. 

Besides, putting my foot in my mouth is part of my charm. Doesn't she know that by now? I made yet another snafu there too. The love lecturer was touting her experience with the "ways of love" and Deputy Downer smacked her down. Not literally, mind you- I'm heartless but not **that** heartless- but verbally. I suppose that doesn't make it much better. Didn't stop Miss Donnatella the Matchmaker though. Merely continued to freak me out with dating advice for the rest of the night. And the weird ass pains continued too. 

As she was talking, I was almost grateful there was a blackout. That way she couldn't see my face scrunched up in pain as I felt my heart being pulled in five different directions all at once. She probably would've gotten all motherly and shipped me off to the hospital stat. 

And I was busy waiting for the numbers to come in. No matter if everyone else in the free world had plans to goof off that night but Joshua Lyman was going to stay focused. He would have the numbers. He would turn the power back on through means of mental communication and have every last member of the power company who had put him in an infernal hell of holding be audited by the IRS. And he could do that cuz he was the dude. 

I thought it was better once I left the phone banks. I felt that I could breathe once more- that is, until Joey Lucas and her faithful dog, er, translator Kenny showed up in my office. Bad numbers, Great, just great. Then I was annoyed. Joey and Kenny didn't appear to understand the severity of this situation. I would've raised my voice, but what the hell's the point? 

Then Joey said something that made my heart stop. Literally. I think that if I were hooked up to one of those heart monitor thingys, right then and there I would have flatlined,

__

"If you polled a hundred Donna's and asked them if they think we should go out, you'd get a high positive response. But the poll wouldn't tell you that it's because she likes you and she knows it's beginning to show and she needs to cover herself with misdirection."

Okay, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Still alive. Takes a licking but keeps on ticking. She couldn't possibly have been serious. But the thing is, somehow I think she's right. Now I was even more annoyed. How the hell can that be? Donna doesn't **like** me; she puts up with me, albeit longer than most of my old girlfriends did,, but hey, she's getting paid. Not well, admittedly, but paid. 

Then this little voice out of nowhere whispered: "Does she get paid to sober you up? Did she get paid to visit your house every single day after you got out of the hospital? Did she get paid to take you to the emergency room the night you cut your hand?"

Swear to God that happened. Very bizarre. Between the chest pains, the numbers, and the aural hallucinations, not to mention the fact that Kenny knows more about my personal life than Sam at the present, I thought I really deserved a drink. Or two. Or four.

Donna whacked me upside the head with a file folder as a way of saying Good Morning the next day, since I ended up stoned at my desk. I probably deserved that. Didn't mean I couldn't say "OW!" I have no delusions about masculine pride when I have a hangover. If something hurts, I say it hurts. Donna called me a baby and told me to get some coffee. If she really liked me, she would have brought me coffee, I rationalized. And since I'm always right, the world resumed its regular tilt and all was right with the universe. 

I'm beginning to wonder about myself. I mean, I think I've already pretty much covered how I am a fine specimen of manhood. Do you think just anybody can wisecrack like this? Okay, maybe CJ. And Toby when he's pissed off. And Sam when he's around Ainsley. And Donna. She can match me, beat for beat, any day, any time, anywhere. But other than that, not many. Not many at all. So, why do I still remain Mr. Single? 

I honestly don't know. It's not like I'm thrilled with the prospects of a celibate, workaholic lifestyle but work is fun. That is, when it's not excruciatingly painful. Still, I love coming in the West Wing every morning, getting my own coffee (humph), and then having a verbal jousting match with Donna. When I stay late, she stays late and nags me, saying she's keeping me company. Frankly, I'm grateful; I'd probably go bonkers all alone late at night, no one to tell me I'd missed dinner, no one waiting for me at home. 

Donna waits for me here. 

Did I just think that? That was almost a settling-down old person's thought. And Donna was in it. 

I'm just going to emulate Scarlet O'Hara and think about that one tomorrow.

Okay, so where was I? Oh yeah, the freakish pains. The next one was the night after Sam found out about his father's marital indiscretion. Donna had barely spoken to me all day, said something about a friend being in town, and spent all her free time finding and talking to Sam. I know that because I asked around. And before you say it, no, I do not spy on my assistant. I merely act the part of a concerned boss who can't find his stuff because a speechwriter apparently felt the need to monopolize **my** assistant. Did I miss something there? I think I definitely must have. And if Sam hadn't been such a wreck, you could've bet even money I would have confronted him about that one.

I was going to take Sam out and get him stinking drunk, what any good pal would do in this situation, and I found Donna and Sam hugging in his office.

Erg. It happened again. When I spoke, it was in a strained voice, trying to play itself off as non-chalant. Just Josh. Everyday Josh. Regular ole Josh who may or may not collapse onto the floor from extreme bodily pain. That was probably the worst of them all, right up there with the window incident. 

I drank a lot that night. I think I drank more than Sam **and** Toby, which says quite a lot. Sam noticed too. At one point, he pulled me aside and told me that there was nothing to worry about. Completely confused and not a little bit tipsy, I asked him what I was worrying about. He motioned toward the table where Toby and Donna were sitting. After clarifying for me that I was worried about Donna and not Toby, he stopped talking and returned to the table with refills. 

I paid and took a cab home. The whole way there I remembered that not once had Donna warned me of my delicate system. That made it worse. I'm not sure how I got to bed but I sure as hell know I overslept the next morning, cuz Leo gave me quite the talking to. Not a way to cheer up a guy with a hangover and chest pains. 

I decided that if these truly were my last few weeks on this planet that I ought to be nicer to people. Not Republicans though. Or telemarketers. Or those really slow fast food workers that Forrest Gump could outwit. I started with Donna. 

I can be really nice sometimes. Really. No, no, I mean it. I can be nice. I wrote Donna a most wonderful inscription in her Alpine skiing book one Christmas and she told me so. It was a limerick. I'm rather proud of it really. 

_This is your present, I fear_

And I hope that it brings Christmas cheer

I know that the binding is crude

And skis it does not include

But for coffee, maybe next year. 

To the best assistant a guy could ever ask for. Joyeux Noel. Josh. 

See? I can be thoughtful and kind and all that. And I remembered our anniversary! It's today. Well, actually, there's some dispute on that one, since Donna started working for me much earlier but then quit to return to the loving arms of Dr. Freeride. I picked out the flowers myself. Yet I didn't get so much as a thank you from Donna. She wouldn't speak more of three consecutive words to me. Mostly she just disagreed with me. I mean, that's nothing new, she always disagrees with me but there was no friendly banter with it. Just curt, "No, Josh" s. 

I tried talking to her. I practically skipped behind her as she wheeled through the bull pen asking her what she thought of the flowers. But it turned ugly. Donna was mad and I was mad and the whole anniversary was spoiled. She wouldn't talk to me. She made fun of me, not in the light-hearted way she usually does, but almost if she meant it. If I wasn't preoccupied with being funny, I probably would have been hurt. 

Then there was the revelation of revelations. She was in a car accident. My Donna, in an accident and never told me, never let me know. Instead she called Dr. Freeride to pick her up from the hospital, which he did after he stopped for a beer with his pals. The absolute freakin' nerve of that guy. I swear to God, if I ever find that man I will kill him. And then, I'll kill him again. And maybe one more time just for fun. 

But at least _she_ broke up with _him._ That must have felt good. 

Then came the Son of the revelations of revelations:

_"All I'm saying is, that if you were in an accident, I wouldn't stop for beer."_

"**If you were in an accident, I wouldn't stop for red lights**."

Woh. I mean, woh. I think my heart muscles were so constricted that I actually felt dizzy when I rejoined the others. She wouldn't stop for red lights. That keeps repeating over and over in my head. She wouldn't stop for red lights. I don't know why I'm obsessing over this phrase- it's not like I'm overly of traffic codes or something. But woh, she wouldn't stop for red lights! 

After I finished inspiring Sam with my famous wit, I returned to my office. And that's where I am now. Still sitting here, in my chair, in the dark, clutching my chest and thinking about Donna, the Violator of Traffic Laws for my sake. 

Joey was right. She wouldn't run through red lights if she didn't like me. Right? At least a little bit. 

This makes me exstatic for some reason. I figure the pain is making me giddy. 

Is it a pain though? Really? I wish I was better at reading biofeedback.

I see Donna outside in the bullpen grabbing her purse from her desk. She looks over her shoulder to glance in my office and sees me sitting there.

"Josh? Are you okay?" she asks, a concerned look on her face.

Double take. She's talking to me. Play it cool. You're the dude, remember?

"Yeah. Yeah." I sigh and shrug into my coat. I turn off the light and find Donna waiting for me as usual. 

She eyes me up and down, scrutinizing, as if like Sherlock Holmes she could deduce by sight of me what precisely I was doing in my office.

She gave up and we started walking to the exit. "What were you doing in there?"

"Thinkin."

"Thinking?"

"Yep."

"In the dark?"

"Good for rumination."

"At two o'clock in the morning?"

"Well, I certainly can't do it at 2:00 in the afternoon, I'm too busy."

"Josh."

"Yeah?"

"You worry me sometimes."

I worry about me too, I say silently. Instead, at the door, I stop, turn and say, "Happy Anniversary, Donnatella. I promise not to worry you too much tomorrow."

She blushes. "Happy Anniversary, Josh." She hugs me. I wrap my arms around her and feel as if I've pulled my heart into two pieces, one up each sleeve. 

As I watch her retreating form, I think I've finally figured it out. Donna makes me worry. That's why I sabotage her dates, get jealous of Sam and accuse Joey of making up drivel. Because I worry about her. I care about her. 

I like her?

And no one but the best is worthy of her. 

No one but the Dude.

I hope when I see her later that she's in a good mood because you really shouldn't worry a man with a heart condition. Four out of five doctors agree. 

The pain in my chest has subsided by the time I reach my car. Hopefully, I'll get another attack just like it tomorrow. 

Fin.

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